


The Best Is Yet To Come

by Salomonderiel



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Pre-Canon, small things that really aren't that small
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-06 20:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salomonderiel/pseuds/Salomonderiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AKA, five times Clint Barton asked for a husband and the one time he got one. </p><p>Can also be seen as a series of scenes showing the evolution of Clint and Phil's relationship. </p><p>I can't write small fics, at all, so each part of the 5+1 is around 2,000 words long... woops. Will be updated every day, as it's pretty much all written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There’s a reason why agents become handlers – hint, it’s not the proposals

**Author's Note:**

> Always been my headcanon that Clint and Coulson were married long before the Avengers showed up. And then I started thinking, who and how, and then all THIS happened, and... IDEK, man.  
> Title is from the song with the same name by Kids In Glass Houses - no real link, just felt it was appropriate!
> 
> (Also, don't judge all of them on this first chapter - this is them really early on, they don't even have so much as a crush on each other yet, so couldn't do much with it, and, to be quite honest, this chapter isn't the BEST written thing I've ever done. But the later chapters ARE. So, if that puts you off [god knows it'd put me off], try the second one at least, too, if ya don't mind! Merci beaucoup!)

If there was anything Clint Barton was good at, it was accepting how much of a fuck-up he was. It was realising when he’d screwed up something, and knowing to move on with hardly so much as a nod of farewell to what he had to leave behind.

He’d had a lot of practise.

He’d hoped this time it would be different.

He’d _warned_ them about him and authority. They’d assured him that it wouldn’t be a problem. ‘We’ll trust your expertise’, they’d said. ‘Let you make comments on the orders’. All those friendly, assuring words had vanished the instance they’d stepped on the field. No, then it had been ‘you do what we tell you to or you go back to the gutters we found you in’.

And they knew, he’d _told_ them he didn’t respond well to that. If he saw an opening, he took it, regardless of what the guys in the suits on the other end of the line thought.

Which he’d done. Which had put the bad guys in the cells, saved at least that backwash State, if not all America, and had put seven SHIELD agents into the hospital, one into the morgue, and that threat of the gutters back in its rightful place over Clint’s head.

Yeah, he’d liked it here. He had a range, guns and ammo, a new and improved bow, stable pay and a roof over a bed. Worst of all, he’d had hope. Losing that left him feeling hollow, and, yeah, a little sad. If he didn’t have his pride, he might grovel, apologise, beg to stay.

But he had it. And damned if he’d let them see how much he wanted this.

So he was sat, waiting, patiently, in the office of the man who’d been assigned his handler when he’d joined. He was lying on the couch – yes, the man had a couch in his office, and that was either showing off or brilliant – with eyes closed, hand behind his head, and muddy boots pressed against the far armrest in what would probably be his last act of defiance. Determined that he was going to grin a huge fuck-you to these guys and walk out on his own feet, no matter what he felt, he was singing Ted Nugent loudly, and more than a little out of tune. Right now, the thought that he was pissing off everyone in the near vicinity was the only thing that made him feel like smiling.

He only stopped when he heard the door swing open. He paused, mid word, and opened his eyes to see his handler enter, a huge folder of paperwork in his arms. He didn’t even look at Clint as he entered his office, but headed straight for his chair behind the desk, sat down, and started on a pile of forms.

Clint swung upright, and his eyes flickered to the name sign on the desk before he spoke. He’d forgotten the guy’s name, again. He’d never bothered to learn it, on principle – and there was no point now. “So, Agent P Coulson-”

“Agent Coulson will do fine. Or sir. I think they put the ‘P’ on the sign for aesthetic purposes.”

The agent was still writing. Hadn’t even looked up.  “What, don’t you even have a first name? Or is ‘agent’ your first name, Agent Coulson?”

“Of course I have a first name. You’re not going to know it.”

Now _that_ sounded wonderfully like a challenge. Or it would have been, if Clint wasn’t going to be kicked out of the building in the next hour. “Give it time,” he settled for saying, smirking, and firmly ignoring how he _had_ none. Either way, the smirk was wasted. The guy still wasn’t looking up. “So, _sir_ – what’s the verdict?”

The pen scratched away for a few more minutes, before Agent Coulson punched in the last full stop. With an infuriating slow _calmness,_ he set down the pen, lifted up the paper and wafted it dry before, finally, Coulson made eye contact, his eyes locking on to Clint’s blandly for a few seconds whilst he said was Clint was has desperate, half terrified to hear. “I managed to convince Hill and Fury that you acted in the best interest. You have today off on medical leave – which is, as you should know, mandatory after a mission – then they expect you back on training tomorrow. Clear?”

Without any conscious will on Clint’s half, his jaw fell open. He didn’t stutter – he’d deny ever stuttering until his dying day – but he couldn’t deny stumbling over the first few syllables until got control of his mouth back. “Sorry – hold up – I’m... _not_ suspended?”

“No, Barton, you’re not.”

This didn’t feel right. So much so that, against all logic, Clint found himself suddenly arguing _why_ he should be suspended. Perhaps it was one of those ‘pushing a bruise to see how much it can hurt’ thing. Perhaps it was just him being typically messed-up. “I disobeyed the supervisor!” he said, voice rising. “I went against orders! Damn stupid orders, but still, I thought you suits hated it when someone does that! An agent is _dead_ thanks to me!”

There was a pause, and Coulson met his eyes again, face still entirely blank. “Us ‘suits’ do. But you were right, they were stupid orders, and I pointed out as much – along with how your actions, rash and risky though they were, stopped a much bigger death count. No doubt exactly what you were thinking at the time. Besides, you’ve only been here a few weeks. You’re new and stupid, and therefore permitted some mistakes.”

The words still weren’t sinking in. At all. In any way whatsoever. “So...” Clint said, drawing out the word as he leant forwards, trying to keep the hope from his face, “I’m off free?”

“Not entirely. It’ll go on your record. But no disciplinary action this time around, just a helpful reminder that if you’re going to break position and draw the enemy down a full street, for God’s sake _warn_ the people there _first_.”

“So... you got me off _almost_ free?”

“ _Yes_ , Barton.”

And, slowly, _finally_ , a giddy sense of relief spread through him, finally letting him relax, breathe out, and sink back into the couch. He was staying. He still had a home. “I guess I owe you, then,” he said, sighing out and leaning back, hands slipping back behind his head – and his mouth, as it had a tendency too, running off without him. He blamed it on whatever happy, post-panic chemicals his brain was no doubt producing. Or a concussion. Concussion was more plausible. He should probably get that checked out. “How should repay you? Sexual favours? Bacon sandwiches? How ‘bout marriage, would marriage do? I’ll be your kept wife. Don’t have much of a dowry, I’m afraid, but I can cook well enough. Would that fill the debt?”

There was some noise from the agent that could either have been a puff of exasperation or a puff of laughter – there really was no way to tell the difference with this guy, and god knows Clint had been trying like mad the past few weeks to try and make his handler crack one way or the other. “Sorry to disappoint you, Barton, but the barter system at SHIELD doesn’t revolve around fornication, pork, or matrimony.”

“Damn.”

“Coffee, on the other hand...”

“You want me to fetch you coffee?” Barton said, grin still firmly in place, eyebrows rising. “So that’s why you G-Men let yourselves become handlers, is it? To get a lackey that _has_ to feed you coffee, or face dire consequences?”

Clint watched Coulson’s face as he blinked, and didn’t smile, per se, but his face definitely _widened_. Clint counted that as half a win. “Of course not, that would be slave labour. Besides, you’re off on medical leave. Basic cappuccino from the privately owned coffee shop a block down.”

“Ah, keep dreaming, Agent P Coulson. I know your ruse. You won’t be able to make _me_ your coffee-boy so easily.”

“I saved you from a month of licking envelopes closed as punishment. It’s because of me you _also_ still have all-time access to the range. And as your handler, I’m the one who says if you can go on an operation until your probation time is up, and I _think_ I’m right in saying I also decide when that is. A cinnamon bun would be nice, too.”

A smug smile flashed into existence, lasting for barely a second before the bastard was poker-faced and filling in forms again. Resigned to the inevitable, Clint sighed out with affected weariness, and pushed himself up from the couch. “Fine,” he said. “But know this – once we’re even, you’re going to regret calling me your lackey.”

“I’m willing to take my chances.  And besides, that was your term, not mine.”

“I’ll haunt you like a ninja,” Clint warned, waving a threatening finger at Coulson, walking backwards to the door so not to break the threatening glare. “You’ll never know where I am.”

“Won’t I?”

“I’ll break you. You’ll be sent to the medical wing laughing hysterically.”

“Good luck with that one.”

“And I’ll, I’ll... I’ll find out your name, and I’ll call you by that and that alone, even in the middle of ops, no matter how much you _beg_ me to call you sir.”

“Just a friendly reminder, you’re only one black mark away from suspension anyway, Barton. I wouldn’t recommend that course of action.”

“But you’re making it sound so _tempting_.”

“Goodbye, Barton.”

Grinning, Clint turned and flung open the door. He had several bruised ribs he hadn’t bothered to tell anyone about, he’d spent the past half an hour certain he was going to get fired and every inch of him wanted to either go and watch some shitty TV or go _shoot_ something – not in the range, somewhere calm, like coke cans on the roof or something – and yet, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, even to himself – he found himself heading down onto the street and towards that damn coffee shop.

 

*

 

As Clint approached Coulson’s office about an hour later, dusting the last crumbs of the pastry from his jacket and holding a half-empty takeout coffee cup in his hands, he made sure to whistle loudly as he passed the door, knowing the agent would look up if only to find out who to make pay later. He’d meant to play it cool and distant, not look – but he couldn’t stop his eyes flicking to the side as he walked past the glass door.

Sure enough, Coulson was looking up, poker-faced as ever.

But when he recognized the whistler and the logo on the coffee – and Clint knew the agent would deny it to the day he died, passing it off as a trick of the light – Coulson smiled.


	2. If this is all just part of the delirium or heat-stroke, someone’s going to pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Coulson is god, Clint's harbouring a crush, and R&D actually get some love for once. 
> 
> The second time Clint offers to marry his handler.

You realise, working for SHIELD, that you’re unlikely to die on a bed surrounded by grandchildren. They do have a pension plan, but Clint knows for a fact Sitwell spends his on cars, Nat on clothes (she actually had a girly side, that had been a shock to find out), and though he’d yet to find out what Agent Phil Coulson did with his, the last time he’d broken into the archives, that particular agent’s bank statement for his pension plan had read at a grand total of $0.21. On the other hand entirely, Clint’s metaphorical vault was overflowing with literal enough gold. He didn’t really have anything he cared enough about _to_ spend it on. So _his_ bank statement read quite wonderfully large.

And what a fucking fat lot of good that was going to do him now.

He’d hoped, or rather expected to go out with a bang. Not literally, he wanted them to have a body bury, people weeping at his funeral, Agent Phil Coulson confessing his undying love by his corpse-side, wishing he’d said it sooner... mm, yes, that would be a good funeral. Few tears, too. Bit of wailing to set the atmosphere. Anyway, all that would happen after finding his body surrounded by hundreds of dead HYRDRA agents, or members of the Ten Rings, that he’d taken out single-handedly before bleeding to death from the many wounds he’d sustained, yet ignored, to fight on bravely. Something staggeringly heroic, but no less than expected from an awe-inspiring, handsome agent like himself.

But there was no plethora of dead HYDRA agents, and there would be no funeral. In fact, there was, and would be, none of the above. Because Clint Barton was going to die, alone, in the middle of a fucking desert, in the middle of fucking _nowhere!_

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was a fucking shame.

Clint let himself rage for a little while, screaming and kicking at the sand and punching mid-air, until he fell down, lay on his back, waiting for the inevitable. If he was lucky, the wound on his leg might stay open long enough for him to bleed to death, rather than have to endure 3 days with no water. He didn’t even have a single arrowhead to cut himself with.

It took a while for him to shake off the satirical suicidal attitude, and the realisation that the wound on his leg, not as deep as he’d first thought, had closed up and stopped bleeding. He wasn’t sure if this new knowledge shook fear or determination into him – perhaps a more than healthy dose of both – but he suddenly found himself desperately thinking that he _must_ be able to get somewhere, find _some_ other type of life, the rest of the SHIELD team, some dumb HYDRA agents he could steal water from, _anything_. He didn’t remember seeing any on the trip here, save for the base he’d meant to infiltrate, a quietly realistic voice in the back of his mind pointed out carefully, but he ignored it. Perhaps he’d been looking out the wrong windows. Besides, he’d dosed most of the way here, hadn’t he?

Either way, he soon found himself on his feet, undershirt taken out from beneath his armour and wrapped around his head, and trying to make his way across the desert.

He didn’t see much. He could be going round in circles for all he knew. And hope for the rest of the SHIELD team was slowly fading. From what he’d caught over the comms before he’d lost his earpiece, Sitwell would be lucky if he was still alive, let alone the taskforce he’d been in charge of. Looked like Clint would have to get yet another handler.

No, wait, no he wouldn’t. You don’t need a handler when you’re _alone and going to die in a desert_.

The sun had all but vanished from the sky by the time entertainment showed up; a huge black shape silhouetted in the sky and the whirring rotors of a helicopter. Assuming it was HYDRA, as they were the only things who had any type of civilisation out here, Clint waited, motionless, until it landed – like he could do anything whilst it was in the sky – and until a figure, completely black with the sun behind him, was up close enough before Clint swung his right arm back and threw a mean left hook right at the bastard’s face.

It didn’t land, unfortunately. A hand grabbed his fist, ninja-speed, and held it there carefully as a gloriously familiar voice said, “I’m not sure you want to do that, Barton.”

All the relief, terror and pain he’d denied suddenly hit him with full force, knocking the breath from him and any strength he still had from his legs, and he almost collapsed straight onto Coulson there and then. But an arm appeared from nowhere and looped around his waist, the only thing holding him up, because his knees certainly weren’t doing their fucking job. Coulson let go of his fist, smoothly hooked his shoulder under Clint’s arm – and the tug on Clint’s arm hurt more than it should, what the fuck had he pulled up there – and began to all but carry him towards the SHIELD helicopter.  

“You’re God,” Clint muttered to him as he stumbled into something undeniably metal and _sweet Mary mother of god_ **_cold_**. Shade. Air Conditioning! “And find me the guy who invented air conditioning, I want to kiss him and give him the fuck of his life.”

“I’m not God,” Coulson assured him, stopping and holding him still for a second as he reached back to close the door to the small hold. Then he turned the two of them around, and tightened his grip on Clint’s waist in order to lift him back onto what appeared to be a hospital bed. That was SHIELD, prepared for anything. Well, to be fair – with SHIELD, _not_ having a hospital bed would be considered reckless.

As his backside sunk onto the cold pluffy mattress, Clint sighed out. “Ohhh, but you must be – omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent – you’re God, it’s the only explanation.”

“Those I can’t deny, even if SHIELD resources help a little bit, but I must point out that God is also said to be omnibenevolent - and I doubt you, of all people, could happily give me that trait,” Coulson counter-argued, leaving Clint’s side momentarily. Eyes adjusting ridiculously slowly to the dark, cold ( _cold_ ahh he still hadn’t got over that) cabin, Clint had to stare shamelessly to try and see what he was doing. Best guess was he looking in a cupboard. His suspicions were confirmed when Coulson returned with a black box, a small red cross on the side.

“Ah, not even God can be perfect,” Clint said absently in reply to Coulson’s comment, wafting a hand and watching curiously as the agent/God opened the box.

Coulson let out a startled chuckle at Clint’s words, making Clint’s lips twitch. Coulson barely ever laughed. “Either way,” he said, lifting two precious, _beautiful_ objects from the box and smiling up at Clint, “I bring water and morphine.”

He chucked the water-bottle at Clint, who, fuelled by an animalistic desperation and relief, ripped the cap off with his teeth and started to pour the fucking _beautiful_ liquid down his throat, swallowing as quickly as he could. He stopped with about a fifth of the bottle to spare, closing his mouth and just pouring it over his face. The ice-cool drops poured down his skin, soaking his hair and clothes, sticking them to him. Damn that felt so good it was almost _sexual._

Feeling a darn sight cooler and safer now had liquid inside and on him, he sighed out, and re-opened his eyes to find Coulson watching him, a 50ml hypodermic syringe in his right hand. “Drugs now?”

“ _God_ yes,” Clint breathed, shoving his wounded leg at Coulson, who slipped his left hand under it to hold it still as the right shoved the needle in, just above the wounded skin.

As the drug started to pump its way through his system, Clint would not be ashamed to say he moaned again. “Shit that’s good,” he muttered, head falling back, “What is that stuff?”

“Some super-strength concoction of morphine, antibiotics and adrenaline they cooked up in R&D.”

“Mmm.” Clint closed his eyes, vaguely aware of Coulson still looking at and prodding his leg. “Yanno what, I’ve decided, God or not, I’m going to force you to marry me, so you’re legally bound to use your omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent, not-quite-omnibenevolent powers to give me water and pump me full of this drug _all the time_. Cos this is just too good to let someone else steal away first.”

By his leg, Coulson chuckled again. If it wasn’t for the fact Clint was bleeding before him, Clint would think he was having a good day. But then, there was a chance that _was_ the reason for his good day. “No need to propose, Barton, I’m your handler – it’s already my job to do just that.” Coulson’s probing hands stopped as Clint felt a tightness that could only be a bandage, and there was a rustling and shaking of the gurney that said Coulson was now sat on it beside him. If he tried, Clint could just about feel the warmth of a body near him, and eyes watching him. He was a sniper – he had a sixth sense of these things.

He also seemed to have a hyper-awareness of his proximity to Agent Phil Coulson, but he was trying hard not to think too much about that.

There was a pause. Then, out of the blue, “You look good wet.”

Clint’s eyes almost flew open with shock – only years of practising self-control, in preparation for torture situations, stopped him from doing so. I mean, he’d suspected as much, but having someone say that _out loud_ – more to the point, having _Phil Coulson_ say that _to him_ – yeah, that was slightly different. He forced himself to open his eyes slowly, and roll his head to look at Coulson. The usually pokerfaced agent looked stunned – was only a few hues away from _blushing_. “I thought _I_ was meant to be the delirious one on drugs,” he drawled out, one carefully sardonic eyebrow raised. Thank fuck for his impeccable acting skills.

With a sudden, if unexpected look of relief, Coulson replied, “Don’t be so sure,” and tapped his right shoulder. Looking closer and listening to the taps, Clint realised it was slightly padded. “Got a bit hairy at our end. Got shot. I’m on exactly the same drugs you are.”

This guy gets wounded in action, shoves some morphine and adrenaline into his system, then scours the desert, lifts a wounded man into a helicopter that’s probably hovering rather than landed, and then tends to him before even putting his arm into a sling. _This guy_. _Is insane_. And a damn _god_.

Something occurred to him. “Hold on – what were you doing in on this mission anyway?” Another relevant aspect of their conversation came flying back, with a torrent of suddenly realised questions quickly following. “Handler? I thought Sitwell was my handler? Is Sitwell okay? Is he _alive?_ Why are you my handler now, is it because he’s dead? For that matter, what happened to Hill, before him? No one ever told me why I was switched!” he finished indignantly.

Coulson didn’t even have to think. “Sitwell’s alive. It was the amount of complaints filed by Hill, and the begging and pleading from Sitwell,” he rattled off. “As it seems I’m the on one who can cope with your snark and insubordination, Barton, you’ve been put back onto my to-do list.”

That rang true. “Makes sense,” Clint said mildly, nodding.

Coulson raised a finger, making Clint fall silent, before speaking again with his characteristic poker face and deadpan tone. “Oh it gets better. Due to influx of complaints from, oh, pretty much everyone, Hill suggested to Fury-”

“Oh, Maria does love me so-”

“-that you were put under probation conditions again.”

Well, that stung his ego. “But that-”

“Means you’re a rookie again? I know.”

“I’ve worked-”

“For SHIELD for over three years now? I’m aware.” Clint was all up and ready to growl and start moaning about the injustices – his hands started to clench on his lap in preparation – but Coulson beat him to it. “But, due to your unique level off annoyance, wit, and affinity for poor puns, it appears the Director believes you deserve it. It’s not serious, anyway. I think they’re trying to take you down a peg. I told him it wouldn’t work, but it was generally believed to be worth a try.”

Well, put like that... Clint tried not to smile, but from Coulson’s expression, he knew _exactly_ how Clint had taken that. In fact, going from that slight turn up at the very edge of Coulson’s mouth, from the way his eyes were wide, Clint would bet heavily that Coulson had phrased it like that on purpose. Unlike the other agents Clint had been shoved with, Coulson knew how his brain worked.

Clint wasn’t annoyed anymore. “So I’m going to go back to having you as a handler again?” he checked.

“Fury’s going to finalise the paperwork in a few weeks.”

“Which means _you’re_ going to finalise the paperwork. I know how the system works.”

Coulson puffed out a breath of amusement. “Perhaps. I’ll be your handler, again, anyway, yes,” he confirmed, with a weariness probably only a few people in world would be able to tell was affected.

“Because you’re the only one who can cope with my ‘snark and insubordination’,” Clint echoed his previous comment. He was smiling, now. He just couldn’t stop himself. “I’m glad,” he said suddenly. “I missed having you around when I finished probation, when I was given Hill rather than you as my handler, Hill and Sitwell just aren’t – _weren’t_ the same – I couldn’t taunt them over the comms like I could with you, and I couldn’t annoy them whilst handing in my paperwork – and mucking about, trying to make you laugh was the best part of my day-” Clint cut off mid-sentence, brain finally catching up with what his mouth was casually spilling. He shut his mouth, and blinked a few times, staring, stunned and more than a bit horrified at Coulson, who was staring back, thoroughly bemused. After blinking a few more times, Clint looked down at his leg. “They really are some good drugs,” he said casually.

And with that Coulson just burst out laughing. Clint turned to look at him, watching with an uncontrollable slight grin as his agent – and he truly was glad to have Phil Coulson again, even more than he’d admitted just then, fuck, even more than he’d probably _ever_ admit to, like, _anyone_ – his agent fell back against the wall behind them, laughing hard, a confused tangle of relief, exhaustion and sheer humour.

Watching him, Clint couldn’t help but start laughing too, for the exact same reasons, and soon he had collapsed against the wall right besides Coulson, laughing so hard he was almost crying.

The two of them spent almost the entire journey back to SHIELD medical in that glorious shared hysteria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, what I would give for a wet Clint...
> 
> Apologies for wounding Clint. And Coulson. But it's still a happy fic, all things considered, so hope that makes up for it! This is the last of the 6 chapters that's set BEFORE they get together, so the coming chapters are going to be fluffier, no fear!


	3. The Definition Of Distraction, Is, Unsurprisingly, Distraction.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is unashamed flirting, concern for the mental health of those around them, and Clint has the Freudian Slip of a lifetime. 
> 
> Things have progressed a bit since R&D unknowingly, and definitely unwittingly, played Cupid.

“I might have the tiramisu tonight...”

 

“You had the tiramisu last time.”

 

“Actually, I think you’ll find I was _going_ to have the tiramisu last time, but, for some reason, we found ourselves leaving before we even _got_ to dessert.”

 

“I told you not to have the oysters.”

 

“Yeah, and you _know_ what happens when you tell me not to do something!”

 

“I do, don’t I?”

 

Clint looked up from the menu, and caught Phil’s eye. The older man wasn’t smiling, which, in itself, was the biggest tell he had. Clint grinned. “Well, I’m not complaining,” he said happily, eyes falling back down to the lists of dishes. “Relatively certain that tiramisu doesn’t beat-”

 

“I would be offended if it did, and you would be lacking a place to sleep for the foreseeable future,” Phil said calmly, carefully licking a finger before turning a page of his own menu. “Have we tried the duck a l’orange?”

 

“Nah, not yet.” Clint found said dish, and scanned the description. Sounded good. He’d be nicking some of that.

 

He absently scanned the fish dishes, the only section he hadn’t got to, before succumbing to temptation and decidedly slamming the menu shut. Phil didn’t even blink. “Fuck it, I’m ordering the tiramisu first,” he sighed, sliding down in the chair and placing his hands on the back of his head. He closed his eyes, leaning back. “I’m not risking missing it _again_. Twice already, and god knows when we’re gonna up and go this time.”

 

“I’d have thought the question would be ‘up and come’ rather than ‘go’,” he heard Phil muse, along with the sound of another page turning. “But you may eat your dessert first if you want. Also, If you like, I could ask the nice waitress to give you crayons and some paper to draw on, and you might even get a lolly for good behaviour at the end.”

 

Clint flicked a single eye open, and saw Phil watching him, smiling _ever_ so politely, oh yes, sir. Polite as anything. “Fuck you, Phil Coulson, I’m a _man_ ,” he said with utter dignity, slouching further down into the upholstered chair – but not taking his eyes off the agent.

 

“That’s under some debate at head office,” came the quick reply, like Phil had known exactly what Clint was going to say. He probably had.

 

“I’d have thought you of all people would know _exactly_ how much of a man I am, sir,” Clint said, letting his voice drop as low and soft as it would go.

 

Phil’s eyes widened, and his lips stretched, ever so slightly – millimetres. “Inconclusive data – more tests might be required.”

 

And that comment was so cheesy and cliché and brilliant that it had Clint grinning wider than he had all day. He cocked one eyebrow and drawled, “Well, sir, we could always recreate the conditions of last night. You, me, the sofa and a tub of Mr Whippy...”

 

Phil raised his own eyebrows, carefully closed the menu and set it on the table. Then he leant forwards, own voice low as he spoke. “I doubt that would give much supporting data, though, Barton. If I recall correctly – you screamed like a girl.”

 

“ _Um. Guys. It doesn’t matter how quiet you speak, I’m still gonna hear it. The mics are right by your mouths, remember?”_

_  
_

Clint managed to hold Phil’s gaze for a solitary second longer, before breaking away, head rolling back and laughing. Phil chuckled quietly under his breath, leaning back into his chair. “Sorry, Sitwell,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Just staying in cover.”

 

“ _Yeah, sure. Just stay focused, okay?”_

_  
_

“I’ll give it my best effort, Sitwell,” Clint promised, still shaking with laughter and unable to stop grinning.

 

“ _You’d better. I’m mentally scarred as it is.”_

_  
_

Clint caught Phil’s eye again, and had to shove his fist against his mouth to stop himself laughing. They weren’t meant to be drawing attention to themselves – in fact, that was the total _opposite_ to what they were meant to be doing. And some guy damn near falling off his chair whilst laughing like a hyena _might_ cause some people to stare. “I apologise on Barton’s behalf,” Phil said composedly, the bastard barely even grinning as he smoothly picked his menu back up.

 

“On _my_ behalf?” Clint exclaimed, leaning forwards onto the table, both hands pressed down and stared at Phil with exaggerated offence. “As if it’s all _my_ fault?! Well _excuse_ me, but you’re _twice_ as bad as-”

 

“Sirs, are you ready to order?”

 

Clint would deny every single time he was asked – even if it was on his deathbed – that he jumped when the waiter interrupted. Waiters do not get the drop on trained agents of SHIELD. The salt-shaker that fell over was a freak occurrence, no matter _what_ Phil said. Clint blinked up at the scared looking man fiddling with the notepad, and carefully slid back into his seat, nonchalantly picking the menu back up.

 

As he reeled off their orders – he didn’t bother checking with Phil, the guy had been discussing for a week what he’d been thinking of ordering – he subtly yet severely kicked at Phil’s shins. The bastard was sat there, top of the closed menu pressed against his lips, hiding the bottom half of his face, but his eyes were wide and his shoulders were shaking ever so slightly.

 

Clint would have felt embarrassed about jumping and being laughed at, if it wasn’t that something _he’d done_ had managed to get Phil to _laugh_. He’d never regret anything that got that particular reaction.

 

He soon felt a sharp jab against his own shin, as Phil started to fight back, and any annoyance at the shock the waiter might have shown at Clint ordering the tiramisu first was forgotten as all his focus went on winning at the kick-war.

 

“ _You two are like teenagers...”_

_  
_

The kicking stopped at Sitwell’s words (and Clint had definitely won that one), and after one quick tight smile at the waiter as he turned and went to pester other people, Clint replied, “You’re just jealous. Hey, yeah – tonight, mine, pop by, bring some smokes and join the party! We’re taking it back to the 1990s, say it with me, WHO LET THE DAWGS OUT?!”

 

“Say that in public again and I’m disowning you,” Phil promised, but he was smirking behind his glass of juice.

 

Yeah. He was that much of a motherfucker that he drank _juice_ at restaurants.

 

(Actually it was probably more something to do with them being technically on duty and Phil being a stickler for rules, but still. _Mother. Fucker._ )

 

“Nah, you’d never disown me, I’m just too adorable,” Clint countered, sticking his tongue out to emphasise the point.

 

“Of course, what was I thinking. I can’t imagine what I’d do without you being so darn _adorable_ around me twenty-four/seven.”

 

“ _It’s one of the greatest mysteries of SHIELD how_ no-one _knows about you two.”_

_  
_

“Some know,” Phil pointed out. “You, Fury, and of course Nat.”

 

“And it’s not really a great mystery – it’s just that everyone in SHIELD, saving myself and Phil, are complete dunces,” Clint explained. “What’s more of a secret is how you Fury gets all the chocolate bonbons from the coffee ladies. I mean, I’m right up and at that trolley the second it’s out of the kitchen, but that bastard is _always there-_ ”

 

“ _Will you love-birds_ please _stop gossiping like the old wives you clearly are, and remember you’re on a mission? Romanov is relying on you clowns to have her back and if you slip even for a second-”_

_  
_

The second that _he_ spoke Phil went from being _Phil_ to _Coulson_ , sitting up, back straightening and face shutting down and Clint wanted to punch Fury, boss or not. He’d get salt into the guy’s next cup of coffee, that was for sure. But in the meantime, Clint resisted rolling his eyes and sat up slightly more, no longer slouching. “Of course, sir,” Phil said, and even his _voice_ had gone all proper. “I didn’t know you were listening in, sir.”

 

Ah, that explained a lot. Phil wasn’t ashamed about being less-than-on-task. He was _embarrassed_. And Clint’s tongue just started moving again with very little thought. “Yeah, it’s easy to get lost in the moment, sir – the candles, the expensive wine we’re downing, close proximity to such a foxy beast-”

 

“ _Barton, I know for a fact you’re drinking Stella. I also know that if you finish that sentence or anything like it you’ll be cleaning the toilets and the prisoner’s rooms for a_ month _to pay for the psychiatric treatment Sitwell and I will need_.”

 

Phil raised an eyebrow at him, and he swallowed. He’d learnt from past experience that _that_ hadn’t been an empty threat _._

_  
_

“ _Keep your mouths shut for anything but small-talk to maintain cover, and keep your eyes on_ Romanov _. Have I made myself clear?”_

_  
_

“Undeniably, sir.”

 

“Like ice.”

 

“ _Good. See you when this farce is over_.”

 

There was complete silence for a good three minutes after Fury’s voice left their comms. They met each other’s glances once, most of the time doing as instructed and watching Natasha. She was doing fine – sat opposite a thick, chunky criminal millionaire, laughing and flirting and flicking her hair and _definitely_ using the low-cut dress to full advantage. She’d even got a WKD so she could show off her lip’s skills using the bottle.

 

“I think you almost broke Fury,” Phil eventually muttered, but he was more subdued, voice quiet as he took a sip from his glass.

 

Clint chuckled – but he, too, found himself being quiet. “I think we broke him weeks ago, when he saw us in the range-”

 

Phil winced dramatically, and Clint smiled. “Perhaps.”

 

They didn’t speak much after that. But Phil’s leg came to rest against Clint’s, and their fingers were millimetres apart on the table top, and that was contact enough.

 

Table still clear of food, Phil nudged Clint with his foot, slightly harder than the slow, near-unnoticeable rubbing he’d been doing previously. When Clint looked up from the napkin he’d been doodling on, Phil tilted his head towards the table where Natasha was trying to get cosy with the Underworld King. The guy was leaning over the table, whispering something into her ear. She giggled – and that just looked weird – as she took his hand, and the two of them rose from the table.

 

“She’s a big girl, she can take care of herself,” Clint muttered, watching them leave the restaurant, her giggling and leaning on his arm.

 

“We’ll hold back here until she asks for help,” Phil said, doing the exact same thing.

 

“ _Copy that_ ,” Sitwell replied.

 

They fell silent again, and though it still wasn’t awkward, it no longer felt comfortable, safe – now, all either of them could do was worry.

 

Phil briefly let his hand rest on Clint’s before he leant back, and in return Clint met his eyes and smiled. But every few seconds, their eyes would flicker to Clint’s watch, and the small light hidden at the centre.

 

It started to flash a few seconds later, just as the waiter set the duck a l’orange and the tiramisu onto the table.

 

Clint considered it a sign of how professional he was that he didn’t so much as moan when he realised he’d have to leave it _again_. He met Phil’s eyes, saw the same combination of annoyance, resignation and fear that he felt, before they both got to their feet and calmly headed out from the restaurant.

 

“I don’t like leaving without paying,” Phil muttered as they stepped outside, buttoning his jacket up against the cool air.

 

“You can go back and pay them tomorrow, god knows we go there enough – where’ve they gone?” Clint asked desperately, peering through the darkness, trying to pick out two figures the same shape and size, but no one, no single silhouette fit the bill, not as far as he could see and they wouldn’t have had time to get further than that in the time they’d been gone.

 

“If they’re not on the main road they’ll have taken a turning, all the cars are still here from when we went in,” Phil told him, stepping further into the street and turning around, scanning the area.

 

 _“Third exit on the left, it’s a small alley behind the grocery,”_ Sitwell told them. “ _She turned on her tracker_ , _as well as that alarm for you.”_

_  
_

Without needing to say a word, Clint and Phil started to run. They reached the grocery in question – another place they knew too well to want to have to connect it to work – and slowed down, walking up to the corner and stopping against the wall.

 

Clint crouched and peered around, making sure that as little of him showed as possible.

 

It could have been worse.

 

Natasha wasn’t wounded, or bleeding. Instead, the guy she’d been trying to get information out of, the big guy almost a head and shoulders bigger than her, had her pined against the wall, one hand covering her mouth, one hand holding her wrists above her head, and his lips sliding down her neck.

 

She was the Black Widow, and she could easily get herself out of it, but that would mean breaking cover. And as Fury drilled into them each and everything briefing, _that_ was the worst case scenario – not being sexually assaulted.

 

But that was okay. Because Nat just needed a distraction. And that was what Barton and Coulson were there for.

 

Clint rose, turned back to Phil and nodded at him. _Follow my lead?_

_  
_

Phil nodded back without a second’s hesitation. _Of course._

_  
_

He gave himself a second to think of a plan. It was all he could afford to have. He had to go with the first idea that popped into his head.

 

His hand slipped into his pocket and he pulled out a miniature bottle of whiskey he’d been saving in case the night got dull. He splashed some onto his neck, and passed the bottle to Coulson. The agent took it and copied.

 

Then, not able to waste any more time to come up with a slightly less embarrassing plan, Clint squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and stepped out from the shadows.

 

“I’M GETTING MARRIED!” he roared as he began to stagger down the alley, arms spread wide and grin spreading across his face. “He said YES!”

 

“ _...the hell, Barton?”_

_  
_

“I had ten seconds to think, and there hasn’t been any games on recently, okay?” he muttered angrily and quickly back, voice barely above a whisper. In his ear, Sitwell just chuckled in return.

 

He grabbed Phil’s arm and dragged him along the alley, occasionally almost tripping over the loose bricks and still shouting whatever came into his head. When behind him Phil started to _giggle_ , it took all the self-restraint he had not to spin around and stare, but he managed when his eyes once again fixed on Nat and her target, who still had her pressed against the wall.

 

“Hey!” he yelled cheerily, as if just seeing them. He ran forwards, dragging a giggling (and he was _never_ going to let that go) Phil behind him, until he was close enough to pull the guy back from Nat in a show of mere friendly exuberance. He was taller than Clint, but by a bit less than the amount he’d towered over Nat, and that was odds Clint was far more willing to accept.

 

As he sized up the best places to punch him, he kept the near-high grin stuck on his face. “I am going to _marry_ this motherfucker,” he yelled, shoving Phil forwards and gesturing his hands up and down the guy’s body, as if to show off how utterly perfect he was.

 

Which he was, of course. But more pressing matters.

 

As Phil stood there, being unfairly adorable and grinning just as much, Clint grabbed the guy’s hands, ignoring the anger and balled fists, and started to swing him round, bellowing at the top of his lungs, “ _I’M GETTING MARRIED IN THE MORNING, DING-DONG THE BELLS ARE GOING TO CHIME-”_

_  
_

The guy was swearing at him, but Clint didn’t let him go, skipping him around in circles all the way to the far end of the alley. He kept checking over his shoulder, trying to catch sight of Nat and Phil. “ _PULL OUT THE STOPPERS, LET’S HAVE A WHOPPER-”_ Phil was pulling Nat from the wall, trying to push her down the alley, the opposite way from Clint and the target –

 

The target finally wrenched his hands free from Clint’s swinging grasp, staggering away. And as Clint tried to get his balance back, laughing “Hey, hey, just some fun,” the guy pulled back an arm, preparing to punch –

 

Clint dived in, under the arm and landing his knuckles neatly on the guy’s jaw, pushing his head back. The target’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed to the floor with a quite pleasing thud. And to ice the cake, Clint saw him dribbling.

 

With a smug grin, Clint dusted off his hands and turned back to the other two. He spread his arms wide. “I’ll take a round of applause now,” he said cheerily.

 

But Phil and Nat didn’t seem to understand his genius. She shook her head in exasperation, whilst he rolled his eyes. He was smiling on the inside, Clint knew it. “You’d better get yourself out of here, Natasha,” Phil said, turning to her and setting a comforting hand on her shoulder. Clint peered down at the guy again, and gently nudged his foot. It rolled limply. “You don’t want him to find you when he wakes up. No doubt he’ll contact you again tomorrow, and your cover’s still intact.”

 

Nat nodded at him, but didn’t leave just yet. Instead, frowning, her eyes flickered between Phil, Clint, and her target. “What about you two?” she asked.

 

Clint raised his head and met Phil’s eyes, silently trying to plead and tempt at the same time. But he could see Phil’s answer already, in the semi-apologetic, semi-I’m-still-your-superior-and-we-should-do-our-jobs tilt to his lips. “We should be getting back to the helicarrier, report to Fury.”

 

“Aw, Phil-”

 

“We can grab some Chinese on the way.”

 

Mollified, Clint grinned. For the records, Phil _didn’t_ wink back, and the food was purely to keep up the energy levels of two important agents. For Clint, it was just another sign of how sweet, easily manipulated (in a good way) and _awesome_ his boyfriend was. Not to mention how well Phil knew him.

 

Stepping back from Phil, and brushing the brick dust from the back of her small black dress, Nat nodded. “Okay. Tell him I’m heading back to the cover apartment. I have some information, but nowhere near enough – yet. Tell him to give me a few more days.”

 

Phil didn’t reply, but pulled the comm unit from his ear, tossing it over to her. “Tell him yourself,” he said. She nodded, and carefully slipped the small bud into her ear, turning away and muttering as she vanished down the alley.

 

 “Gone without a goodbye,” Clint sighed, setting a hand to his heart and pouting. “And there I was, thinking she liked me.”

 

“She’s just a bit more professional than you,” Phil pointed out, walking forwards and stepping over the limp body of the target, not even sparing it a glance. “Come on – Sitwell will already be passing on the message we’re on our way, and if we’re late fetching your damn Chinese I’m going to make sure you’re the one who gets the punishment.”

 

Spinning to follow him, Clint laughed. “Well, aren’t you the epitome of caring boyfriends?” Coulson didn’t reply, and Clint had to jog up to his side to see the small smile on his agent’s face. He sighed wearily, not taking Phil’s hand in his, per se, but letting them brush as they walk. “Spoilsport.”

 

“If I was an enabler, you’d be twice the weight you are now, and out of a job.”

 

It was true, Clint had to admit it. Chuckling, he shoved Phil gently, enjoying the half-amused squawk of shock that came from him. “Besides,” he said confidently, “There’s not going to _be_ any punishment. We just saved Nat’s ass! If anything, they _owe_ us one – we’re now hated by our restaurant, for dining and dashing!”

 

They turned left on the main street, blinking as they suddenly stepped into the glare of a streetlamp. Phil paused, mouth hovering open, ready to speak, before he finally said, with the slightest edge of hope to his voice, “We have a restaurant?”

 

The weight of what Clint had said hit him. They _had a restaurant._ He’d never been in a relationship long enough, or strong enough to _have_ things before; jokes only they knew, places they went to, things just they did – but he did now. “Yeah,” he smiled, eyes flicking across to Phil to see him looking back, smiling just as softly, “yeah, we have a restaurant. So _thanks_ , Nat,” he said suddenly, voice rising and kicking an abandoned MacDonald’s cup along the pavement, “for picking there... we’re using the business card next time we go there. And making her, personally, pay for that tiramisu I never got to taste. That is not something I’m going to forget in a hurry.”

 

“I’m sure. You don’t think she’s going to be a bit busy the next few days?” Phil tried to point out, but the lightness in his voice made it clear he _knew_ nothing he said would be taken seriously.

 

Clint scoffed. “Please. My cunning and awesome quick-thinking skills just saved her life. She can spare a couple of dollars for my uneaten meal.”

 

“Yes, that cunning and quick thinking. Your usual brand of genius. You realise the general idea is to ask the guy _before_ you declare to the world you’re engaged?”

 

Clint didn’t even hesitate. The instant the teasing words reached his ears, he swung round, put a hand on Coulson’s chest to make him stop, and fell to one knee before him. He batted his eyelashes, hands clasped together in front of him, and smiled as sweetly as he possibly could. “Phil Coulson, most revered, most admired and most fucking sexy agent of SHIELD, will you lower yourself to consenting to be the husband of this humble, pitiful ex-carnie?”

 

Phil didn’t reply immediately. Didn’t even respond, mouth staying slightly loose, eyes slightly widened with shock.

 

With all the force of a bullet, Clint suddenly realised what he’d just done. And he stopped breathing.

 

But then an exasperated smile spread across Phil’s face, and his eyes sparkled. Chuckling, he shook his head, and stepped around Clint. “You’re utterly disreputable, Barton.”

 

Still staring up at a now empty space, Clint breathed out. Then, with an ironic chuckle, he grinned, hands falling onto his knees, head falling onto his chest. He shook his head once fiercely, as if to shake thoughts from it, and pushed himself to his feet. He spun on the balls of his feet and ran after Coulson.

 

When he caught up to him, he slipped his fingers into his agent’s hand. Phil squeezed his hand once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah no I don't know either.  
> I just had the idea of them having a restaurant that was THERES, and before I knew it I'd written that scene. I'm not going to apologise.


	4. Clint's Getting Good At This Not Dying Lark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some things you say only when you think you're not going to live to regret it.

There’s something about robots in particular that really piss Clint off.

If he has to guess why, he’d say it was probably something to do with how his arrows, however sharp, never did a fucking thing against them. He likes things to _bleed_ when he hits them, thanks. Not to just realise he’s there then coming storming after him.

It became easier to deal with them when R&D finally chucked out the explosive arrows he’d been hinting wildly at them since time began, but there was still something in him that starts to sulk when he's called in with the word ‘robots’.

But it’s Coulson who calls him in. So he obeys, as he always has done and always will, for him, since his third month on the job.

And it all seems to be going well enough though, yet more proof that the sulking is unfounded, and damn if that doesn’t make him sulk some more. He stays up high, better for aiming, and though none of the machines can fly (thank god) they’re tall, and seem to have an affinity for climbing buildings, so Clint’s got Coulson’s voice constantly redirecting him across the rooftops to where more of those things are getting too close to the normal people, the civilians. And he’ll run, knowing the rooftops of New York probably better than he should, over to where there was a thing for him to blow up, which he promptly would before standing and await further instructions.

It’s a tried and tested method. He and Coulson have it down to a fine art, even the comments, the snark and sarcasm and flirting that is one day going to get them a suit of sexual harassment from everyone else who was on the same line.

Clint always manages to forget about them when he lets his tongue run away without him, before one of the agents cracks and takes one for the team (usually Sitwell), and coughs discreetly, leaving Clint grinning (but being a bit more silent).

He’s yet to get Phil so embarrassed that he cracks first. But he’s working on it.

So it’s the first sign things had fallen to shit when the line is filled, not with orders or innuendo, but with static. Radio contact has gone.

That really is never a good sign.

It’s damn obvious that the line is thoroughly dead, but that doesn’t stop Clint shoving it the bud further into his ear and yelling “Coulson?” a few times and “Sitwell?” once for luck. He isn’t sure that shoving it further into his ear is going to do anything but give him a headache, but it’s what people always do in the movies, so it must have some credit.

Five minutes later, Clint forces himself to admit the inevitable. He doesn’t have backup on call anymore. He’s stuck on a rooftop surrounded with killer robots, that most definitely know where he is and even more definitely _aren’t_ trying to give him cookies.

These are _exactly_ the type of situations he tries to avoid.

He spins his bow around, and reaches back for an arrow. Slotting it into place, he moves to the centre of the level roof, and waits.

The first five don’t even get close – but they don’t have to. Not when they are damn _machines_ , who run on electricity. But Clint’s Clint, and a human, and someone who hasn’t slept more than five hours over the last two nights (it had seemed like a good idea and very enjoyable at the time but he was _really_ regretting it now).

The sixth robot catches him as he pauses for breath, leaning against the roof access. It slices a line from the shoulder of his left side all the way down to his hand. He doesn’t realise it fully at first, too busy shoving his final explosive arrow into the thing and kicking it over the edge, but the pain hits him a second later as he tries to draw his bow.

He gasps, doubles over, dropping the bow and reflexively holding his arm tight against his chest. Blood flows over his hands, onto the floor by his feet. His eyes widen as he sees how much there is, and for a second he can’t do anything but stare at the damage.

As his eyes focus on the torn flesh, the depth of it and blood still cascading from it, the world starts to spin. He opens his mouth, blinks, staggers back until he’s leaning against the access again, and desperately looks _anywhere_ but at his arm. He doesn’t know why he does that. Perhaps, if he doesn’t look at it, it doesn’t exist. But every now and then his eyes jump back, as if it’s somehow got better in the last few minutes – he doesn’t need to heal completely, just to stop bleeding. It doesn’t.

It’s definitely gonna need a few stitches. Hopefully it’s gonna need stitches. Well – were corpses given stitches?

Part of him tries to summon the energy to berate himself for being so pessimistic. But survival instincts have kicked in, and he can’t do anything other than breathe and fight the pain that’s slowly numbing his limbs – wounded arm going first.

 _Help_ , his instincts say through the fog that’s starting to make him feel tired, in a terrifying way. _Get help_. _Find help_.

But he’s got no radio contact, no explosive arrows, no flare, no tracker, nothing that flashes, because he’s usually an overconfident dick who doesn’t assume he’s going to need a hand-held way of getting help.

Something clatters on the metal behind him, and purely from auto-pilot Clint manages to pull a blade from a holster at his thigh and swipe at it as he turns. He can’t make out shapes any more, can’t tell what’s standing still or swaying – he has a feeling he’s the one swaying but, and that is more than a bit scary – but the thing before him is, he thinks, twice his size and shiny metal, so it’s most likely an enemy.

It doesn’t matter either way. He doesn’t hit it. His dagger goes wide and he loses his balance. He staggers back, turns his head, tries to get a fix on the robot and can see it raise its arm over him, he thinks, is guessing, but his arm won’t move fast enough and legs can’t do anything but shake and his sight is tunnelling anyway. Two seconds, and he’s going to be nothing but blood-red rags.

He still tries. He moves as fast as he can, pushing the dagger towards the tangle of wires at the ‘neck’ of the thing.

It explodes, flying backwards and off the roof, falling and eventually smashing onto the street below.

Dazed and confused, Clint stares at his dagger. He hadn’t known it could do that.

“Barton!”

He knows that voice, and it was really the last one he expected to hear out in the field. He tries to turn around, tries to come up with a snarky comment about pension plans not working out. But his legs have other plans.

They collapse beneath him before he’d even managed to turn his head, sending him sprawling backwards onto the gravel. He lands badly, legs twisted beneath him, but his injured arm doesn’t hurt as it falls limply across his chest, then slides onto the ground. It’s entirely numb now, not in his control anymore. It’s like it’s not even connected. This confuses him – he thought, for paralysis, you had to hurt your back but he hadn’t hurt his back. He didn’t think. . .

“Medics! Get me medics and get them here NOW!”

It’s almost as if Fury cares for him, Clint thinks dazedly. The big black guy suddenly looms over him, scanning him for a second before seeing the arm, and swearing loudly. It hurts Barton’s head.

“You’re an idiot, Barton,” he mutters, ripping material from his top to tie around the archer’s upper arm.

“Well, at least I won’t be an idiot much longer, sir.” Clint doesn’t know how he managed to say that, he hadn’t thought he’s able to speak, but apparently he can. He decides to keep doing it. There can be no harm now, surely. “I didn’t – particularly – want to die today, sir. For one thing, I haven’t finished reading Deathly Hallows . . . I’ve never even been to the top of the Eiffel Tower, either . . . always wanted to climb to the top... not using stairs, that’d be cheating...”

“Yeah, well, let’s see if we can keep you an idiot for a bit longer so you can finish that bucket list, Barton,” Fury mutters. “That means you gotta stay awake now, even if it means I’ve got to slap you to keep you here. I haven’t given you permission to die. Keep those sharp eyes open, got that?”

“Never been good at keeping my eyes open,” Clint sighs, feeling his eyes close on him even as he said it. He blinks, making them flicker back open again. “Too lazy. . . I could talk, if you want, sir. I’m good at that.”

“Sure, why the heck not. Barton, talk to me. Cherish that, I’m never going to say it again.”

“I doubt it . . . not really something you say to a dead guy. . .” Fury might have flinched at that, but Clint isn’t sure. He’s just a big black and brown blur now, anyway. “It know it’s a cliché, but, so much I wanted to do. . .”

It’s getting harder to open his mouth. He’s just, so, _tired_. He wants to sleep. That isn’t scary. Sleep is good. Everyone knows that.

“I’d made plans for Saturday,” he says, not really talking to Fury any more, just talking, because he feels like he should. “Gonna take Phil out . . . this Chinese place . . . I never told him I love him . . .”

“Coulson?”

Semi-unconscious, Clint can’t hear the shock in Fury’s tone. “Yeah, that one,” he agrees. “I do – love him, that is. Tell him. Could you tell him?”

“You tell him yourself, when you-”

“If I don’t, though?” This is important. Sleep will be fine, once he gets a confirmation. He can sleep then. He rolls his head, looking at Fury. He tries to grab the man’s arm, but his hands still won’t obey him. “Tell him if I can’t?”

There isn’t even a pause. “Yes.” That makes Clint feel better.

He sighs, head rolling back again, looking at the blue-white smudge that is the sky. “I thought I would marry him. Kept thinking . . . how I’d do it, y’know? How I’d ask him . . . I’ve joked about it for years, but . . . I thought I would have, eventually. Married him. Would you have let us?”

“Barton, are you asking for my _permission_ to _marry Coulson?_ ”

He would smile, if he could. “Perhaps,” he agrees. He doesn’t point out how it doesn’t matter, any more.

“I can’t believe – Barton, I wouldn’t have given a damn. Sure, fine, whatever, permission granted.”

That’s good.

“Just – you gotta ask him first, okay, Barton? You gotta ask Coulson yourself, not me, he’d kill me if he thought I had to give permission . . . Barton, don’t leave Coulson, okay? Ask him, not me, stay to ask him. . .”

 _You almost sound like you care_ , Clint doesn’t say. _I wish I could_ , he doesn’t say. He can’t make the words form anymore.

He thinks he hears a helicopter, as he closes his eyes, but then, it could just have been the blur of his senses as he closes his eyes and everything stops.

 

*

 

When he wakes up, it’s in the far-too familiar hospital beds in the medical centre of SHIELD. Phil’s sat on the chair at his bedside, suit crumpled and bags deep beneath his eyes.

But his face crinkles into a smile when he sees Clint wake up.

“So,” he says softly, voice low and quite, so not to hurt. “Fury said you had plans for Saturday?”

Clint smiles, and reaches for his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are WELL on our way now!  
> Things are starting to get serious...


	5. Whilst You Were Meant To Be Sleeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the ridiculously fluffy chapter. There are no sad feelings. Whatsoever. Everything is cute and nothing hurts.

Their week had been ridiculous.

There had been black-market traders, hallucinating snipers ( _not_ Clint, this time), underwater villains' lairs, crocodiles, Da Vinci paintings, angry short men with L9A1s, and some surprisingly vicious, genetically mutated hamsters.

Thinking back, it sounded like a comedy-thriller.

It really hadn’t felt like it at the time. Especially not when Clint had been captured. That hadn’t exactly been a laugh.

But Coulson had got him back, that was what mattered, and they’d captured the delusional bad guy and destroyed the underwater lair with minimal press coverage, so by all accounts it was a success. That was what Fury kept telling him, as he sat there, arm being stitched up by one medic and calf being stitched up by another. That it was another tick in Coulson’s book and all that. To be honest, Phil thought that if he ever actually asked for all these ticks to be cashed in, Fury would owe him – perhaps not the United States, but definitely a state. Perhaps he could push for Hawaii.

Fury muttered something about going up a level – just proving Phil right that there was a level above level seven, Sitwell would owe him a muffin if _he_ ever got the clearance to know about it – and about Phil’s uses as a backseat agent, something else Phil wouldn’t exactly complain about. He was already the oldest field-agent he knew, almost old in his job at the ripe old age of 42. And as long he could watch over Clint in some way or other, he was fine with whatever details Fury decided on.

He let the medics do what they wanted and let Fury say what he wanted without saying a word himself. When they stuck on the last plaster, or whatever it was they’d done, he nodded at them, agreed absently to whatever Fury had just said, made his leave, picked up his jacket and left the room.

He didn’t head to his office, or to the deck to get a lift back to land – he walked down the corridor, and turned into the doorway of another medical examining room, only a few doors down. He took in the sight; Clint on the bed, shirtless, chest being bandaged by one doctor to hold the broken ribs in place, another applying bandages to his left hand (he wouldn’t be able to use his bow for a few weeks – and wasn’t _that_ going to make Phil’s life enjoyable), and a third cleaning a gash on the lower half of Clint’s left leg. Then he leant against the door frame, arms crossed and jacket hanging over them, and waited. Clint realised he was there after a few minutes, and smiled widely. Phil winked; Clint winked back, then went back to wincing and moaning at the doctors around him.

The doctor tending his leg took longest. After cleaning it, he had to stitch it up. Watching it, Phil felt his near-identical wound itching, now hidden beneath his muddy and bloody suit trousers. But he didn’t move, he just watched, and waited. When the doctor was done, he pushed himself upwards and stepped forwards, and the doctor seamlessly stepped aside to let Phil help Clint to his feet, looping an arm carefully around his sniper’s waist to hold him up, letting Clint put his arm around his shoulders to use him as a crutch. “Thank you,” he said to the doctor, because Clint hadn’t but someone should. And besides, Phil knew that he was more grateful to the doctor for helping Clint, than Clint himself was.

Clint continued to groan all the way to the helicopter, and the whole journey _in_ the helicopter, and even whilst they were in the civilian taxi heading back to their flat he only changed words such as ‘drug-dealers’, ‘terrorists’, ‘black-market traders’ and ‘assassins’ for ‘nut-job bastards’.

He finally stopped talking when Phil unlocked their front door, and half-carried him across the threshold. “Straight to bed, I think,” Phil said quietly, not turning on the main lights but the side ones, keeping the light low.

Even whilst semi-unconscious, Clint still managed a leery wink. “Now _that_ sounds like the type of post-mission check up _I_ want.”

Phil just smiled, continuing to lead Clint towards their room. “You really must be tired,” he said, hand slipping slightly so it wouldn’t push on any fractured ribs. “That was a dreadful innuendo.”

“It was, wasn’t it... I’m blaming it on the medication. It’s messing with my head.”

Phil chuckled, and pushed the door open with his foot. Clint winced silently as the movement made Phil’s hip push against his, jolting his body.

“Come on, Rambo,” Phil muttered, “let’s get you some sleep, and you can ravage me tomorrow. How’s that?”

“Sounds ... sounds good.”

Phil turned Clint slowly, and lowered him onto the bed. He waited as Clint used his one good hand to pop open his buttons and pull down his zip before helping him tug off the jeans, making sure the heavy material didn’t drag over his stitches. He then helped pull the top over Clint’s head, constantly bickering as Clint tried to promise that he could do it even though he was still wincing whenever he raised an arm too much. And this was _Clint Barton_. Hawkeye flinched for no man.

When the archer was left in boxers, Phil trusted that Clint could get himself under the covers without rupturing anything else, and started to remove his own clothes – set the suit jacket over the back of a chair, followed by his tie and shirt. He turned away as he pulled off the black trousers, so Clint wouldn’t see him wince.

“You’re fooling no-one,” Clint said sleepily.

Phil smiled, finally stepping out of the muddied material, and leaving the trousers in a heap on the floor.

“Take your socks off before you get into here, or, I swear to god, broken ribs or not, I’m going to hold you down and take them off myself.”

He perched on the edge of the bed and pulled the offending cotton items off quickly, throwing them to land on the trousers. He’d check his clothes in the morning, to see if there was anything salvageable, or if he’d have to file another expenses claim. Then, left in boxers like Clint (he didn’t have the energy to try and find a pair of PJ bottoms), and confident that he met Clint’s rigorous rules, he slid under the duvet and pressed himself against Clint as softly as he dared, not wanting to knock the bandages.

But the second his legs touched Clint’s, the archer’s hands wrapped around him, pulling him closer until their bodies were entirely lined. “Don’t you dare stay away,” Clint muttered, eyes already closed.

Phil’s lips twitched into a smile again, and he pressed his lips to Clint’s forehead, before carefully repositioning himself, turning over, his back against Clint’s chest, his hands resting on Clint’s as they wrapped around his waist. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. For now, he could ignore how difficult that sometimes became. For now, he could believe it was a promise he would always keep.

He always dozed off quickly. When you often only get a few hours at home each night, you learn to fall asleep within minutes, absolutely anywhere. So in his own bed, with Clint’s arms around him, Clint’s breath dusting over his skin, and after a week of mayhem, drifting away was almost too easy.

But he heard one more thing before he fell asleep, seven minutes after climbing into bed. Clint sighing out, his forehead pressing against Phil’s shoulder, and two whispered words. “Oh, marry me.”

Phil didn’t reply. He knew he hadn’t meant to hear that, that Clint already thought him asleep. He wasn’t even sure if Clint had meant to say it aloud.

So he stayed quiet, let the warm happiness fill him, and fell asleep, confident that there’d be no nightmares that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To come... the +1....


	6. Take A Good Look At These Crow's Feet, Sitting On The Prettiest Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final enstalment of the 5+1. Enjoy!

It was that one mission in every ten. That one mission where things all fall to shit, and there’s nothing, no one in the world who can sort it out. That one mission where 25% of the agents die, and they can’t even retrieve the bodies.

And Phil had been on it.

He’d been out of the main action – surveillance, on the comms, directing the team, the supervising agent – but this wasn’t comforting, not when all that anyone was talking about, on the deck, on the bridge, in the gym, even in his fucking _range_ , was horror stories of what had happened out there.

The team returned to the helicarrier five days later than planned. Clint managed to catch a glimpse of Phil, for a second, the barest second, and that was only because Sitwell had broken the regulations to tell Clint the jet was incoming, and because Clint was haunting the helicarrier, waiting for any news. He managed to see Phil amongst the agents that had stumbled off, each of them torn and bruised and covered in blood. That sight, short, from a distance, was enough to let him know Phil was _alive_ , that he could walk. It wasn’t enough to stop him worrying. He didn’t know if Phil had seen him.

But now Phil has been cordoned and carted off, with the rest of them, hidden away in some conference room so Fury can give them some pathetic, stupid talk on how they had to ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’.

And everyone else, all the curious people who’d managed to crowd onto the deck to watch the far-from-triumphant return, are now being shooed back onto the bridge and into the break rooms.

Fuck that. Clint wants to see his lover, knows his lover needs to see him, and he’s being kept from him.

He’s tempted to go to Fury’s office and break shit. He wanted to go to the range and shoot stuff, burn off adrenaline. But he can’t, really, do either. He doesn’t know why, he just... can’t.

So for a few minutes he aimlessly strides through the corridors, lost and desperate and god-damn _furious_ , but mainly scared. Yeah... mainly scared. Compared to the last few days, where he felt entirely lost and without any reasons to do _anything –_ this new feeling is, could be, strangely relaxing.

Would be. If he wasn’t so, fucking, _scared._

Eventually, his footsteps take him where they _always_ take him, when he’s on the helicarrier.

He doesn’t stop walking as he enters the familiar office, but goes over to the desk, grabs a pad of post-its, and starts passing them from hand to hand like a makeshift ball, pacing, moving back, forth, endless, thoughts simply saying Phil’s name over and over, trying to stop himself going mad in the desperation in the waiting to know how he was, if he was okay, that he was sat somewhere fucking _dying_ –

He hadn’t looked in pain, he tells himself. Tries to reassure himself. Hadn’t looked injured. He’d been upright, he’d been walking without help.

But then again, with Phil, it’s sometimes hard to tell.

He has to stop, stand still, and count his breaths in and out, before he feels like he’s able to move again. His fists shake by his side as he carefully steps forwards, half expecting his leg to buckle beneath him, and continues to move, keep moving. He’s got to keep moving.

When his phone buzzes, he still doesn’t stop moving – can’t – just throws the pad of post-its into the chair and pulls it from his pocket, still pacing as he flicks it open.

That it’s from Phil stuns him into stillness. Phones are strictly prohibited in debriefs, a rule that Phil himself has often enforced. For a second he stands there, staring at the name, trying to understand why Coulson is breaking rules. Then it hits him how _stupid_ he’s being, and, fingers shaking so much that he almost hits the delete button (and that slips sends a bolt of fear through him that makes him swear, voice shaking), he clicks ‘read’.

‘ _Yes.’_

‘Yes’. ‘Yes’? ‘ _Yes’?_ What the fuck does ‘Yes’ mean?

Fingers flying over the buttons, Clint texts back as quickly as he can, ‘ _I haven’t asked you a question to say yes to’._ It takes him seven attempts to type out ‘question’ without any mistakes.

The reply takes so long in coming that Clint’s started to wear a hole into the carpet again, running thousands explanations for the lack of reply through his head – going from sudden heart-attack from stress to Fury snapping and eating the damn mobile and yes it’s all so ridiculous and outlandish but the chance – however slim – _the chance_ that Phil is hurt – and he’s all but hyperventilating before he phone goes again.

He’s amazed he can stop his hands shaking enough to open his phone, let alone read the whole message.

‘ _Yes you have. May 16 th, the evening. The day you almost lost your leg, in North Dakota. After medical, I took you home. We went straight to sleep, I had to help you get undressed because of your injuries. You thought I was asleep, and you asked. I didn’t reply then. I do now. Yes.’_

Clint reads it in silence. It takes him a few seconds to realise he isn’t breathing. A few more to remember how to. By that time, he’s already moving.

It’s another strict rule that debriefings are not, under any circumstances, to be interrupted. But Clint figured that if one rule had already been broken, what’s the harm in another?

He doesn’t pay much attention to Fury when he enters the conference room, and yes, the guy is making the infamous ‘carry on’ speech, Clint even remembers that last phrase and then Fury’s yelling his name but Clint really doesn’t give a fuck because Phil is sat in the middle of the far side of the table, eyes on him since he walked through the door as if he’d been expecting Clint to gatecrash the meeting – and he probably had, because the bastard knows Clint better than _Clint_ does. And he’s smiling. He’s got the beginning of a black eye, a cut on his left cheek, and there’s not an inch of him that isn’t covered in mud or blood but he’s _smiling_ at him, so Clint ignores everyone else in that room, all the agents who’ve been trapped in there for the debrief and probably just want to watch the latest game anyway, and walks around the table until he gets to Phil. He kicks the chair around, something entirely not necessary because Phil is pushing it back himself and standing up and suddenly Clint’s got lips against his, hands in his hair and on his waist and he can _hold_ Phil, wraps his arms around him like he’s want to for a fucking fortnight, he can feel him and taste him and breathe him in and that’s what he does, he holds him and just _breathes_ , and it’s not wrong to compare Phil to his air because he _is_. Without the warmth of Phil’s hands, the hot, wet press of his lips, the feel of his breath over Clint’s skin, the thud of Phil’s heart against his chest, Clint doesn’t know who he’d be, where he’d be – heck, _why_ he’d be.

And now – and now Phil’s actually going to be his.

Holy _fuck_ , Phil is _his._

He’s grinning as he pulls back – not letting Phil go, fuck no, just back enough to get some oxygen, their foreheads pressed together – and it’s not just because of the kiss, because of the _marvel_ that is Phil, but also because of the wolf-whistles and cat calls and cries of ‘get a room’ that come from the rest of the agents at the table. Clint could think something really profound like ‘reminding the agents there’s still good in the world’ but he doesn’t, he just thinks his friends are bastards who just need something to mock to feel better. “Fuck off, I just got engaged!” he yells to the room, tongue stumbling over the word engaged because fucking _engaged,_ but he’s still grinning, and is relatively certain he looks more than a bit manic but he, really, doesn’t care. He just lets his forehead rest against Phil’s, shaking as Phil chuckles under his breath, exasperated, in _love_ , and wonders if this is ever going to sink in. He doesn’t think it ever will. _Ever_.

And apparently, it’s not sinking in for anyone else either, because the room falls silent almost immediately – but it’s not a horrified or awkward silence. It is – somehow, and Clint didn’t even know such a thing even _exists_ – a very, very _happy_ silence.

 Which is broken, of course, by Fury, with a typically elegant sigh of, “Motherfuckers.”

And, of course, that sets them all off again. Suddenly, everyone’s laughing, wooping, congratulating and commiserating, and still wolf whistling and yelling abuse because, happy for them though they may be, they’re still all complete and utter bastards.

And as Clint holds Phil’s face, rushing away a smudge of blood and as he steals a chaste kiss, nothing more than pressing their lips together as they both laugh – he feels this might be a little bit perfect.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should explain the title first of all. 'The Best Is Yet To Come' is the title to a Kids In Glass Houses song, and is pretty much self-explanatory. All other titles were vaguely relevant to that chapter.  
> This final titles, however, is lyrics from a song called 'Prettiest Eyes' by The Beautiful South. It's from the point of view of the husband of an old married couple, looking back to all their good times, counting each one by each line on the 'crows feet, sitting on the prettiest eyes'. I think I'm using it to show the good times they've got to come, growing old together etc, but I'm not too sure, if I'm honest! Either way, go look it up. Beautiful song. 
> 
> I even don't know, I spent ages trying to find a title, and I like the song, thought it had some relevance, and used it!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's suffered through all these, and left good comments! I'm glad you've enjoyed them.


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